


He Said We Were Stars

by battoff



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternative Universe - No Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battoff/pseuds/battoff
Summary: Although everything about him practically screams otherwise, Simon Snow is nothing if not Normal. He's attending university, works part-time, shares a flat with his best friend, etc. There are plenty of reasons too numerous to list as to why Simon isn't as mundane as someone might think upon first glance but why don't we start off with the fact that he has an (unwanted) archnemesis.





	1. The Power of Powers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t really done this in a while. Plus this is my first fic for _Carry On_ so don’t mind me.

People don’t believe me when I tell them I hadn’t meant to kill my dad. Mainly because I never called him “Dad” out loud, it was only ever David (or Davy if he was in a good mood and I didn’t want to ruin it).

I want to say that people not trusting my word doesn’t bother me—in the end, the court ruled it a second-degree murder on account that I was apparently a victim of abuse (not that I really thought about it like that)—but it does. People look at me funny like I’m about to go off at any second. Most folks tend to steer clear if they recognize me which means any altercations only happen with extreme aggressors. Anyhow, nearly everyone who knew David disliked him so them not caring for me has to do mainly with the fact that I stabbed someone in general.

I hadn’t meant to but no one believes me when I tell them that except my therapist. (And Penelope. Oh, and Agatha. Shit, Micah too.) She’s one of the few people I trust, and it’s not just because she thinks I’m honest. She actively tries to help me and works to better my health. I’d probably be off in a ravine somewhere without her but I try not to put too much emphasis on my attachment to her.

She says I have a tendency to hero worship others who give me the time of day (that’s an extreme, you get the gist), and that that’s the biggest reason I didn’t realize how bad my situation with David was. I guess she’s right about that. I’ve noticed since then that half of the times I had a meltdown they were caused by David, whether it be talking to or simply the mere mention of him.

Even so, I remember praising him to high hell just because he adopted me when I was twelve. He came to a foster home I’d been staying in for several years and told me I was going to be his heir. It wasn’t until I was attending a boarding school he deemed fit (he was the headmaster there) that I realized his main reason for taking me in was because I had “book smarts.” The students there talked about it enough that even someone as dimwitted as me caught on. David saw an opportunity in me for some odd reason, a chance to have a smart child accomplish his goals in life.

As you can see, that failed spectacularly considering he’s six feet under.

Crowley, I’ve got to stop thinking so morbidly. It’s easy to if I’m being quite frank. There’s nothing harder than trying to change how you think about yourself or stuff in general, especially when it’s changing to a more positive manner.

Penny says I have to be kinder to myself. I hate how sad her eyes get when she looks at me, all droopy and vulnerable, so I try to be better for her at least.

Penelope was the one who found me after it all went down. She came rushing over to David’s office (where the argument had started) after she called several times only to get the answering machine. When she saw me sitting next to him, eyes vacant and mind somewhere else, she vomited on the carpet. Then she called for an ambulance and held me to her chest until I came to, sobbing while pushing her away.

I don’t remember much of what happened that day. Most of my memories come back in the form of night terrors and meltdowns in broad daylight.

If it hadn’t been for Professor Bunce (Pen’s mum), I would’ve dropped out of school. She helped me, though. Not just with the whole “being taken to court” thing, but also with the subjects I never really got. She seemed to understand how my “book smarts” only went so far and that if it wasn’t math or logistics I wasn’t going to be very good at it. She didn’t look surprised when I told her I was barely passing English, Political Science, or Social Studies. In fact, she just nodded her head like she was expecting it.

Professor Bunce still helps me with stuff like that. She knows I’m not that good with words so she tutors me, makes Penelope do it if she’s too busy. Nowadays it’s just Penny who helps since her mum’s been promoted to headmistress of David’s old school after he kicked the bucket.

I have her and Penelope to thank for actually making it into uni since they stood by me even when I wanted to drop out. I’m glad I didn’t, though because, more than anything, I love science and math. That’s why I’m going to uni for a computer science major. Penny says I’m daft for loving something so sterile but then I remind her she’s an English major with a political science minor and that shuts her up fast.

We’re roommates, me and Pen. That’s what we’ve always wanted since we met at boarding school. We’d talk for hours on end about how, once school ended, once I turned eighteen and didn’t have to follow David’s strict ideals for how my life was supposed to be, once everything was behind us, we’d get an apartment and go to uni together. Maybe Micah (Penny’s American boyfriend) would move to England and join us, help pay rent in exchange for kissing Pen on the daily and seeing my mug at the crack of dawn.

Now we’re living our dream. We’ve both gotten into the same university, found a flat nearby that we could pay for with what little money we have pooled together, and Micah’s planning to visit sometime this year.

Penelope went to visit him the past two summers, taking me with her the second time so I wouldn’t be alone, so it’s only fair Micah comes to _us_ for a change. Sadly, it’s not in time for moving day. Penny and I have to bring all of our furniture (which, admittedly, isn’t a lot) up four flights of stairs into our two bedroom apartment. But it’s worth it because we’re finally living together.

I’m so happy I tell Pen that I’ll bring up the last box, she can rest in her room before we start arranging everything. She doesn’t argue with me and I don’t try to dissuade her. It’s not even that heavy, the box, it’s just having to walk up and down the stairs as many times as we have wears a person down.

When I finally reach our floor I bump into someone, a tall git with a firm chest who doesn’t even have the decency to fall too to save me some embarrassment.

“Watch where you’re going, will you?” I mutter it under my breath.

The stranger huffs out a dry laugh before walking around me. I only catch a glimpse of his legs and—fuck, is he a football player? He’s _thick_. Still, he’s a git for leaving me there on the ground.

“Rude…” That’s to myself, seeing as he’s already gone, the tosser. But, before I can get too in my head about it, Penelope calls me from inside our flat.

“I found the sour cherry scones!”

Needless to say, I’m on my feet in seconds.


	2. Light a Match Inside Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Remember to be safe: don’t take candy with broken wrappers, don’t drive under the influence, and try to remain with a group of people you know if you’re heading out! Have fun and enjoy the chapter <3

Penny makes me get to my class wicked early since it’s the first day and she doesn’t want me to be late. I’d be more annoyed (with purpose) if I wasn’t nearly asleep at my seat. It’s a lecture hall so I take a seat in the last row, column furthest from the door. It makes me feel safer as I lay my head on the table and close my eyes.

I don’t know how long I’ve got my head lying there but it doesn’t feel like much time has passed before someone grunts loud enough for me to hear. It’s an odd sound. Who fucking grunts in this day and age? Fucking tosser.

“Says the moron who bumps into his neighbours.”

Shit. Did I say that out loud?

“Yes you did. Now, why don’t you keep your nonsensical thoughts to yourself, Snow.”

I flinch at the mention of my surname, sparing a glance at the bloke I apparently ran into yesterday. He’s sat down in the row right in front of mine so I can’t get a good enough look at his face but I can see his black wavy hair he’s slicked back and a bit of his high cheekbones, his skin like red gold. I already don’t like him. I can just tell he’s the kind of guy who’s unfairly attractive even under the nasty fluorescent lights universities use.

Despite my mind telling me to ignore him, I open my mouth to apologize. “Sorry for bumping into you yesterday.” The guy rifles through his stuff like he didn’t hear me. I lean over the table to get closer. “Hey, I said I was sorry—”

“And, trust me, I heard you. Next time watch where you walk,” he says all level-headed and cool.

 _Now_ I hate him.

“Why are you such a git? I’m trying to be nice and you—!” My face is red, I can just tell by how hot I feel all over. I haven’t even talked to this man for five minutes and he already has my blood boiling. To make matters worse, I can’t find my words so I’m subjected to blubbering incoherently like an idiot.

Suddenly, the stranger turns around and I’m glad my cheeks are flushed by then because, Crowley, he _is_ unfairly attractive. What the hell? His eyes, though a dull grey, are bright and sharp and give off the same feeling of a venomous snake stalking prey. His lips aren’t as full as mine but it doesn’t matter, he has them pulled back in a sneer as he glares at me. I wish I hadn’t said anything.

“Listen, I don’t care for your company and I’ll make sure that you don’t care for mine so why don’t you do us both a favour and sod off.”

Well. That’s the end of that conversation, huh. He’s already facing forward, writing down something like his life depends on it. I’m too distracted to do anything until the professor walks in.

*******

For a self-righteous asshole who hates my guts, this guy sure has a stupid name.

_Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch._

Almost all of the professors call him _Mr. Pitch_ or _Basilton_. That should’ve been the first clue to ring off the “posh tosser” alarm in my brain. The few classes we share, he sits with one of two people: a guy named Niall and another named Dev (who I assume is his cousin or something because his surname is Grimm). They’ll look at his notebook every once in a while like he has all the answers in the class. I don’t want to admit I think he does, too.

We have English, Political Science, and a basic maths class together. Penelope joins us for the last two which I like since I finally have someone whose notebook I can check when my mind can’t process what the professor says.

I tell Penny all about this _Basilton_ during our lunch break. She finds the entire situation hilarious, she almost spills her tea when she starts to snort. That’s how her laugh goes when something _really_ tickles her.

“You sound so stiff, Si!” She pushes my arm gently, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Like a professor, calling him Basilton. Almost all the students call him Baz. We are the same age, you know?”

I sigh heavily, crossing my arms over my chest which is a clear tell that I’m upset. I’m too bothered to actually try to hide it, I’m pouting like a child. I hate when I get like this but I’m also not going to stop. It’s worse if I keep it all in.

“You don’t get it, Penny. He’s rude and a prick and— and—”

“He’s hot, Simon.”

“Micah would be furious.”

“Micah would agree.”

We both stop to have a stare-off, Penelope’s gaze too knowing. What she knows, I have no clue. It annoys me, though, just as much as Baz has all throughout the day. So I go back to glaring at my scones.

I hate it when she’s right when it comes to stuff like this. It makes me feel like I don’t _get_ things the same way she does, I never have been. I try not to think in general, it’s a preemptive measure against pain caused by my own idiocy. But sometimes that just leads to me feeling inadequate and _that_ sets off an entire chain reaction in my brain.

My mind is flowing with too many thoughts, none of them helpful to my situation. They’re only there to start the tingling between the layers of my skin, a buzzing throughout my entire body. I’m about to go off, I know it, so I push aside my plate and mutter some half-assed excuse about getting to class early before rushing out of the dining hall.

Probability and Statistics is next on my schedule. I vaguely remember seeing it on my way to my first maths class. Following some signs, I head there and pass an empty hallway. That’s odd given the time of day but I don’t care. I take it as the perfect time to stop and calm down. My eyes land on the paintings they have decorating the walls. It’s all in a fruitless effort to stop myself from going off on the first day of classes at my new school.

Thoughts spiral into each other and I’m reminded of my first day at boarding school which brings me to David and I’m _really_ trying not to cry in public. My eyes focus on a painting of the current headmistress. My therapist taught me this trick. She told me to find something in my surroundings then think of several facts concerning it. It helps ground me.

The headmistress looks fairly young in her portrait (maybe it was done when she was first inducted?) because her eyes are the only part of her face that’s wrinkled, though from laughter or smiling. She seems the epitome of refinement. Her hands are placed on her lap just so, chin lifted to assert her high position of power, eyes firm enough to make it hard to stare at her for too long.

There’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that’s telling me she’s familiar even though I haven’t actually met the headmistress yet. Hopefully, I never will. Knowing me, it’d be for some stupid mistake that’ll get me expelled. That’s my dumb luck, you know? Still, I can’t help but think I’ve seen her somewhere before.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It’d last you longer.”

Baz is standing a meter or two away from me but it’s enough to reignite the flame beneath my skin. Just as I was settling down too, I kind of want to cry from frustration. He’s sneering at me again and I don’t really care for it at all. The only thing I want is to go home and hide under my covers for several hours until night comes. I turn so I don’t have to look at him, gaze falling to the plaque below the portrait.

_Natasha Grimm-Pitch._

Oh. _Oh_. I’m daft. I won’t admit it but I am. At least, right this second. That’s Baz’s mum. What? Is he thinking I fancy staring at other people’s mums like they’re some hot stuff? Nasty. Not that the headmistress is ugly, it’s just not _like that_.

“Do you make it a habit to narrate your every thought to any random passersby who happens down your path? Or do you think it’s a good idea to call the headmistress ‘hot?’”

He’s quoting me. Crowley, I sound like a git. The flame in me is quickly snuffed and my skin feels way too clammy.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him because I am (sorry, that is) and I can’t string together words to fully explain myself.

Baz rolls his eyes, though he’s notably calmer. His arms fall to his sides after having been crossed over his chest for so long, judging me. His face has gone slack, gaze falling on his mum’s portrait. “Do you only know how to apologize, Snow?” He tries to put some bite into his words. It just comes out exhausted.

I don’t want to say yes so I shrug. “‘M no good at words.” It’s partially the truth, I’m not technically lying to him. Then again, what does it matter if I lie to Baz? He’s a rude neighbour so there’s really no point in being nice to him.

He shakes his head and I can’t help but watch his wavy locks fall out from where they’re gelled back to show off his widow’s peak. He walks past me, having given up on our (one-sided) conversation. “Work on that, won’t you?” Baz says, and he’s right next to me so it feels like it’s being spoken directly into my ear. He’s gone the next minute.


	3. Sitting in the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shabbat shalom! I hope y’all have a restful day <3

Baz, as obnoxious as he is (and as it pains me to admit), is a good neighbour. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. Penny would have a field day if I did, she’d stick her nose in the air and say “I told you so” so many times my eardrums would burst.

No, that can’t happen. At least not anytime soon.

Penny thinks Baz is a nice enough guy. He discusses literature with her and is polite during partner work in the classes they share. To be honest, it’s kind of irritating that she gets to see Baz’s (supposed) good side while I’m stuck having his permanently sneering face in our classes. Then again, I’m happy that at least Pen isn’t suffering because of him like I am (hate that guy).

It sucks, really, because Baz is actually a very respectable neighbour who doesn’t make a lot of racket at night or leaves questionable packages for hours on his doorstep. (We have a lot of odd tenants in our building.) If he weren’t such an egotistical arse I would consider befriending him. But _no_ , Baz just has to be a giant tit about everything concerning me.

I tell Agatha all about him during one of our video calls. She’s always interested in hearing my latest rants, says it reminds her of our “golden days.”

See, Agatha’s one of my friends from boarding school. Me, Pen, and her (and Micah for one year) would do almost everything together: classes, breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea time, etc. We were all really good friends. Then, immediately after graduating, she moved to California without saying a single word. I’m still confused about that entire situation but I’ve never asked her why she went through such a big move. I’m just happy that she’s happy. Agatha’s also my ex but we’re past that thankfully. I would hate to have lost her, she’s a big part of my life.

“So Basilton…” She yawns, rubbing at her closed eyes as her tongue clicks. “He sounds like a lot of work.”

“He is.”

“Like, why not go by Tyrannus? He could go for a dinosaur motif instead of a herbal one.”

“I think you’re missing the point, Aggie.”

I’m lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s only seven in the morning here but Agatha’s clock is eight hours behind. She’s ignoring her bedtime (as she does) and listening to me complain about some bloke she doesn’t even know.

Agatha’s humming along to some music she has playing in the background. “ _No chance. No way. I won’t say it._ ”

“Aggie—”

“Don’t pop a vessel, Si. Am just singing to,” another yawn, “to myself.” She shuffles on her own bed before sighing heavily. “Basilton never liked when I told him that idea either.”

For a moment I’m glad her eyes have been shut for half of our call. She doesn’t see my own bug out at what she’s said.

“He _what_?”

It comes out more like a hiss than an actual question. Agatha pays it no mind and rolls over.

“Wonder if he still has that long hair of his. He’d never tell me his haircare routine, I’m jealous. Never forgave him for that.”

She’s going off on one of her late night tangents like she normally does when she’s too tired to keep her thoughts inside her brain. I’m suddenly too awake to ignore mine.

“You know Baz,” I finally let slip out. I just woke up, I shouldn’t be that surprised by how loose my tongue is.

Agatha looks at me, gaze dull. She’s probably already drifting into sleep when she responds. “Our families are rich.”

It’s as simple as that. She could’ve left it there but she sighs again, this time sadly. “They go to the same club that all the dusty old families go. Sometimes I’d tag along and see Basilton there. For a while, I thought I fancied him.”

My mouth goes dry. “And?”

“I fancied the idea of him, I guess. I’ve never really fancied anyone other than you or some bloke from a band I was fitfully attracted to. I don’t know, he seemed... different. I’m not his type, though.”

“How are you not his type?”

Agatha gives me a look, eyebrows all bunched up like she can’t fathom how moronic I am. I _feel_ moronic. Curiosity is gnawing at my sluggish brain. I’ve never wanted to know something so badly right after waking up.

“I’m going to bed, Simon.”

“Oh.” I try not to make my disappointment obvious. I don’t know why I feel disappointed of all things. “Goodnight. Love you, Aggie.”

Her lips pull into a quaint little smile, full of sleep. “Love you too, Si.” Then she hangs up the phone and leaves me alone in my deafeningly silent bedroom.

*******

Today Agatha and I don’t have a call planned. It’s only been three days since our last one but we have a routine to work around our conflicting schedules. We usually Skype when Aggie’s about to go bed and I’ve just woken up. It happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays but today’s a Friday and I’m waiting for my call to go through.

The Skype tone goes for a minute before Agatha picks up. Harsh fluorescent lighting bounces off her blonde hair, white tiles behind her. She’s fixing herself a ponytail without letting go of her bag.

“Are you in the bathroom?” Is the first thing I find myself saying because I’m a twat who doesn’t know how to chew my words at all.

She glares at me, almost dropping her scrunchie. “Sorry, Si, you kind of called me in the middle of the day.” She’s done with her ponytail so she moves to rummage in her bag. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?” I’m playing dumb. I’m really bad at it but I don’t want to actually talk about what just happened, my heart hurts. I hate thinking. I try to avoid it at all costs and this—discussing my emotions on whatever the fuck happened outside—isn’t exactly up to par with my ban.

Agatha pulls out a tube of lipgloss and proceeds to dollop an unhealthy amount onto her mouth. “Oh, don’t be daft. You never call in the middle of the week unless something’s gone wrong.” She dips the brush back into the tube to cover her top lip, pausing to glance at me. “You didn’t go off, did you? In public, I mean,” she whispers. The gloss is sliding around as she presses her mouth into a thin line. “I know you hate when that happens, babe. Is that what happened?”

I bark a pathetic laugh that almost ends a little too watery for my taste. I look away (eye contact is hard) and take a deep breath. The digital clock on my bedside table says it’s ten o’clock at night which means I’ve caught Agatha in the middle of her lunch break. “Never mind. It can wait until Tuesday, Aggs.”

Her face puckers like she’s just eaten one of those American sour candies. (Micah showed her them when he was on the foreign exchange program and she’s never completely trusted him since.) She tosses her lipgloss back into her bag and rushes to lock the bathroom door. At least, I imagine that’s what she’s doing when I hear a loud _click_ sound.

When she returns, she picks up her phone so she can sit on the counter. “Tell me what happened, love.”

I don’t respond.

Agatha’s apparently not having my _extremely clever_ diversion tactics because her face puckers again before she sighs. “Something obviously happened—something bad enough that you’d call during lunch over here—so out with it.”

Her eyes go all soft, my heart following suit. She has that effect on me, even after all these years, even after we broke up. Agatha has a tendency to let my mind crumble a bit (the good way, like biscuits). “I don’t want to think, Aggie,” I finally say after minutes of silence.

If she was really here, sitting next to me on my bed, she would place her hand on top of mine and nod her head like she understands everything without me saying a single word. But she’s not here, she’s in America sitting on a bathroom counter so she covers the camera a little bit with her fingertip like she’s reaching out to me.

“Tell me about it.”

So I take a deep breath, open my mouth, and start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven’t posted a new chapter in a little over a week. I’m bad at scheduling chapters but I’ll try to find a specific day to post them. Feel free to chime in your thoughts! <3


	4. We’re Flash Paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows if this chapter will actually stay up but I edited the shit out of it yesterday so enjoy <3

I feel like I should preface all this with the fact that I never intended on leaving my flat in the middle of the night. My plan was to go to bed at eight o’clock like the old man Penelope says I am so I could wake up the next day at the crack of dawn. The thing is, I didn’t account for the fact that I have night terrors. I know, how stupid of me to forget something that has plagued me since… well… you know. But I hadn’t had one since Penny and I moved into our flat so I let it slip to the back of my mind. That is until I had one. The thing that woke me up from it, oddly enough, was someone knocking on my door.

Technically it wasn’t my bedroom door, it sounded too far away even then so I knew it came from the front. I got up, wobbling around on my own two feet like fucking Bambi until I was peering through the peephole.

My eyesight’s always atrocious after I wake up.

( _“You could say that again.”_

 _“Shuddup.”_ )

Whoever was standing on the other side came up too blurry for me to distinguish. I opened the door anyway.

( _“Pen would totally flip, you know? What if it was an axe murderer or something?”_

_“Like Jason?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Well we both know it wasn’t since I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”_

_“I guess.”_

_“So maybe Penny doesn’t need to know that last little bit.”_

_“Keeping secrets, are you now?”_

_“Just don’t tell her, okay? She worries enough about random blokes coming to murder me without either of us indulging her.”_

_“Fine. Continue.”_

_“Thank you.”_ )

I didn’t really care at the time, though, if I’m being completely honest. I was sleepy and wanted to go back to bed, simple as that. Maybe, I hoped, my night terrors would leave me be long enough to rest before class the next day.

At first, I didn’t recognize who was standing there, all pompous and dickish. The bloke was wearing ridiculous pyjamas, too warm for the weather, which should have been my first sign that it was my tosser of a neighbour. _‘Isn’t he hot,’_ I had thought, then I realized it was Baz. Of course _he’d_ wear that much clothing to bed. The twat.

I opened the door, leaning against the frame. My legs probably would’ve given up on me if I hadn’t. “What’d you want?”

Yeah. I’m all eloquent like that.

( _“Shut up Agatha. Stop laughing at me! Crowley, it was the middle of the night. I was tired. I’m_ still _tired.”_ )

Baz glared at me, swaying slightly. He had just woken up too. I could tell. He looked like me at that moment: horrible, hair plastered to the side of his face, eyes crusty from sleep, lips extremely dry—it made me feel fantastic. Perfect Baz looked just as bad as me. Served him right.

“Could you refrain from shouting at this late hour, Snow?” He crossed his arms over his stupidly firm chest.

( _“Firm?”_

_“Shut up Aggs. I’ll never finish at this rate. Do you even wanna hear what went down or not?”_

_“Fine, fine. Go ahead.”_ )

I hated that he looked like that; ridiculously good even with sleep working against him. Fuck him. Fuck that guy. I crossed my arms just to give myself something to do, slightly to piss him off. Prick probably thought I was copying him. He was following my movements, swaying like a drunkard. His eyes were glued to my chest and normally that wouldn’t bother me but it was Baz and I hate that guy.

My skin was still vibrating from my nightmare, scorching hot and itching for the cool night breeze to soothe it. So I grabbed the closest shoes to me and left Baz at my doorstep. I know, I know. It was stupid of me to leave someone I don’t know well at my doorstep without anything to stop him from robbing the place but, at the time, I didn’t really care. I said fuck his stupid neighbourly complaints. I just wanted to get out of our (unnecessarily heated) apartment building, and into the cold night.

The back exit was easy enough to find. It doesn’t even set off the fire alarm and the watchmen only take shifts watching the front. I stepped out, kicking a spare cone to hold the door open while I leaned against the brick. There’s too much light pollution in the city to see anything but I stood there anyway. I counted the cars passing by, most likely holding drunk teenagers on their way home after a fabulous night on the town. I counted the number of windows without lights on. I counted how many had curtains and then—

“It’s freezing out here. How can you stand it?”

I remember thinking, _‘Can’t I catch a break?’_ That was all I wanted; just one minute without Baz (the real one or the one that plagues my thoughts, they’re both bastards). He was standing right next to me, front to the street. I didn’t bother turning to face him, going back to counting the fire escapes that would probably fail inspection. “Why do you care?” I asked because I had gone a tad dull around the edges. My mind was slowing down, abandoning all interest.

When I checked to see what was taking him so long to respond, he was pulling out a cig and placing it between his lips. Bloke used a fucking _match_ to light it before taking a drag. How dramatic. “I don’t.” The smell prickled my nose. He’s so annoying. “Want one?” He gestured with a cig and I hoped my face was enough of an answer.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Lucky you.”

Then we were quiet. I didn’t bother saying anything and neither did he. He just stood there, smoking. And I was watching him like some creep, eyeing him through my peripheral as if that would reveal all his secrets and defaults. I didn’t figure anything out (what a shock) since all he was doing was having a smoke. I must have really been exhausted because everything he was doing was pissing me off. I wanted to smack that stupid cigarette out of his hand, press him against the wall, and—

“You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t cover up,” Baz said out of nowhere before tossing me his jumper.

That was when my heart stopped being a dull tit and started to feel as if an elephant decided to plop down on top of it. The sweater was already bringing warmth back into my fingertips wherever the soft wool was touching me. I hadn’t meant to smell it but it was right there and I had begun to feel a wee tipsy from the luxe jumper and my lack of sleep. It smelled like cedar, bergamot, and cigarette smoke. I had never thought that odd combination would both calm me down and set my senses alight. When I looked up to say something (anything really, an insult would have done just fine), Baz was already gone.

I didn’t go back to my flat at first. Everything that had happened only moments prior was still processing in my admittedly slow brain. Putting on the jumper helped speed up the process, though. The smell, the texture of the fabric, the association of all of it to Baz, it made me feverish and I feared I was about to go off.

Which leads me here, awake in my bedroom at ten o’clock at night, talking to my ex-girlfriend on a Skype call about how I might never be returning Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s jumper.


	5. The Operative Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all. I'm so sorry I haven't updated this story in literal months. the only reason I can give is that I had a bit of a writer's block but I'm back with quite a lengthy admission that I hope Y'all will enjoy!

It goes all silent once I’m done. I don’t bother unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth where it has permanently glued itself to stop me from embarrassing myself any further. Agatha doesn’t say anything, either, but she has gone wide-eyed. Only a tad, though. She appears pensive for the most part, eyebrows nearly at her hairline while still managing a slight furrow.

Minutes pass before I break the silence. Mind you, not on purpose; I breathed in too suddenly and start hacking on my own saliva. That seems to break Agatha out of whatever trance she was in because her mouth pops open, making an audible sound due to the excessive lipgloss she put on earlier.

“You fancy Baz?”

She’s somehow made it sound like both a question and a statement. How? I don’t know. It confuses me all the same. I feel my face get hotter, ears most likely red. “Aleister Crowley—of course not! What kind of question is that? Of course, I don’t fancy Baz! I hate that guy. He’s so rude and pretentious and superfluous and—”

“Hot, cunning, rich, and—” Agatha stops counting off her fingers, peering up at me through her lashes. She blinks once, then twice for good measure. “Sorry, did you need any more reason to deny yourself Basilton?” I turn over, groaning into my pillow. “Listen, Si, you almost went off because of this bloke’s _jumper_. That’s not, like, normal. Code of arch nemeses be damned.”

Rolling onto my back, I huff loudly for Agatha to hear. “He’s just a tosser—an intolerable one at that—he grates my nerves constantly. It’s not the first time he’s almost made me go off.” One quick glance at my screen has me scrambling to fix the quirk in Agatha’s eyebrow. “Never on purpose, I don’t think. He just annoys me, is all. He’s not actually trying to take the piss.”

“So,” she drags out, “what _does_ all this mean? Like, if you don’t actually fancy Baz. Which you totally do, by the way. But we’ll cover that topic when you’re ready.”

I ignore the wink she sends my way. She jumps to conclusions way too fast sometimes, I swear. “It means—”

There’s frantic knocking on the door. It makes both of us jump as we’re reminded that there are other people that might interrupt us, given the chance. Agatha shoots me an apologetic smile before hopping off the counter.

“Text me later, yeah?”

Checking the time, I find myself nodding. “Yeah. I should head back to bed anyway.”

Agatha says a quick goodbye then hangs up. I’m suddenly left alone to my thoughts with every shift bringing my attention back to Baz’s jumper. A heavy sigh escapes me, the stupid thing’s distracting as all hell. Yet, I find myself keeping it on while falling into a dreamless sleep.

*******

It seems to have slipped my mind after the conversations of last night that, even though I don’t have class today, I work morning shifts. I wake with a start, cursing as I finally notice the incessant ringing of my alarm clock. One look at the blaring red numbers tells me I’ve overslept just enough to toss the idea of a shower before work out the window.

It’s mornings like these where I scramble out of bed at a truly frightful speed and pull on the first things in sight. That usually ends in Gareth having quite a laugh at my expense and a number of odd looks from customers.

Whatever. Something is better than nothing considering I only sleep in my pants (except for last night but we’re not talking about last night). Just a pair of trousers and a jumper should do for a mundane shift. I sprint to work which is thankfully not that far from where Penny and I live.

I’m still a minute early when I finally arrive, Gareth shooting me a silent question from where he’s unlocking the shop. “Overslept,” I explain. He gives me a sympathetic smile before we head inside.

We start our duties as the morning crew: setting up the food, brewing coffee, wiping down all the countertops. Both of us know we won’t have much time to do anything else but deal with customers once the doors open and we get hit by the breakfast rush.

The Kid’s Creamery is a pretty popular coffee place that the locals frequent on their way to work or school or whatever they’ve got planned that day. My friend runs it and she’s taken to employing people she’s familiar with.

It’s really sweet how she gave Gareth and I jobs at her shop but Penelope finds it hilarious that I even work at such an ordinary establishment. Her words, not mine. I actually like working here. It’s a small business run by one of my dearest friends. And, while the rushes stress me out some, the entire concept of making a set number of drinks with only a couple variations is actually quite nice. It quiets my mind and forces me to go blank for a bit. That helps on days where my thoughts are too loud, bustling together to be the centre of my attention.

Eb (that’s my boss) has an odd yet efficient setup where there are two registers: one for drinks, another for food. The café is pretty small so it makes the workload less daunting for us. Some people find it annoying, though. We pay them no mind and carry on.

Whenever we’re not in a rush, it’s kind of slow (we never admit it out loud—that just triggers a cascade of cranky customers). These lulls typically happen once breakfast is done and it’s too early for lunch. Even our lunches aren’t _that_ hectic. The only other time we’re as busy as we get during mornings is when the senior citizens grab breakfast for dinner at four o’clock.

Right now Gareth has taken advantage of the pause in the shop’s foot traffic, hiding in the bathroom so he can (most likely) use his phone. He’s already stocked everything back up so I grab a towel to wipe down the tables, booths, and counters. Maybe, if I have enough time, I’ll count the money in the registers.

Suddenly, a bell rings near the front of the shop.

Guess I spoke too soon.

I head back to the main cash register, mentally preparing my customer service voice. (Penelope says I have an eerily good one. I keep telling her everyone has one deep inside them. She chooses to ignore that.) “Hello! Welcome to The Kid’s Creamery. May I take your order?”

By the time I manage a glance up, pen and notepad in hand, Baz has this face on; eyebrow arched perfectly, muscles slack, mouth in a straight line. He’s judging me. I can tell, he seems the type to judge people in service jobs. Of course, it had to be Basilton who visits the store when all I want is to _not_ think about him.

He rolls his eyes, moving his gaze to the chalkboard menu tacked onto the walls behind me. “Can I get a large hot caramel swirl latte?”

I start writing it down. There’s no point in maintaining eye contact with him anyhow. He’s just going to keep that same expression on like he’s just bitten into a lemon and can’t decide if it’s too sour for his tastes.

“Of course, sir. No sugar or—?” My voice lilts up at the end which Penny says makes me more approachable in this kind of environment. She’s right if the positive reviews I’ve received are anything to show for it.

“Ten.”

Now _that_ gets me. I peer up from my notepad, not even bothering to move my head (why should I, really?), to stare at Baz. This grim bloke who looks like he came straight out of a Dracula movie (or at least gothic France) wants ten sugars in his coffee. A _latte_ no less. Is he fucking with me?

I ignore my instincts to call him out on his questionable coffee choices. Honestly, I have no room to judge; I take my tea with so much milk Penny questions the purpose of me steeping it. “All right. And would you like whole milk, skim, or a non-dairy alternative?”

“Whole.”

My hand is already reaching out for a paper cup when I remember Gareth is in the restroom, leaving me to tend the food items on display.

“And may I interest you in a snack today, sir?” I gesture at the trays of sweets and sandwiches in the refrigerated counter.

Baz eyes them like a starving man, tongue poking out from behind his lips. It’s actually very distracting. I wish he’d stop so I wouldn’t be consumed by a concerningly urgent curiosity I won’t dare name. (It’s _nothing_. Anyone would find a view such as that one distracting. There’s nothing to name.) Then he looks at me with that same stare and I _really_ want him to stop. (Nothing to name. Nothing.) He must now realize how he appears to anyone else because he’s back to his usual indifferent, almost bored expression.

“A slice of banoffee pie. Extra whipped cream.”

I fight the urge to raise an eyebrow at Baz’s admittedly questionable coffee shop choices. “That will cost more, sir.”

“That’s alright.”

And it must be—he's already taking out his wallet. “Okay.” I nod more to myself than to Baz as I reread the order aloud. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. That will be £4.91 please and thank you.”

He pays, moving to sit down at a booth. I’m hoping he’s only waiting for me to bring him his food so that he can leave but I highly doubt it. He’s taken a textbook out from his messenger bag along with a folder of notes.

I bring him his drink and pie slice. “Here you go, sir. Enjoy.”

Cold grey eyes peer up at me over the lip of a steaming cup. They’re honestly a drab colour that no one would find interesting to look at. If anything they cause my skin to burn, pins and needles sparking beneath the surface. His stare has me shifting where I stand so I return to my station without hearing his response. Not that he strains himself to thank me. How surprising. A posh prick who isn’t polite to baristas. That’s half our clientele right there.

Instead of falling back into the Pitch loop, I busy myself with menial tasks so that I can ignore his _royal_ highness. Gareth returns not long after. He’s adjusting his large belt buckle while nodding off in Baz’s direction.

“What’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome doing here? I thought he was above people of our ‘station.’” Gareth cracks a smile after his admittedly good impersonation of Baz.

I shrug at him. Pen says I should stop doing that in response to every question thrown my way but who am I to break old habits? “Guess we’re not beneath him enough that he has to deny himself his caffeine fix.”

Then, as if he’s successfully tricked me, Gareth snaps his fingers. His other hand is shoved inside one of the display cases, adding some new pastries to replace the ones that have already been purchased. “So you admit he’s hot,” he whispers. It’s more of a monotonous murmur since Gareth’s tone is about as expressive as a computer whirr.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You didn’t correct me when I called him Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

I give him a look that I hope shows him how ridiculous he’s being. But, then again, we both have the social competence of a toddler. (My therapist tells me not to think like that, negativity only sets me back and, while she’s right, it’s a bit hard when being self-deprecating is so easy.) My mind attempts to split its focus between the conversation Gareth and I are having and the money I’m trying to count.

“So what? You think I care whether or not you find Basilton attractive?” It takes me a few seconds to realise I’ve practically hissed that sentence instead of whispered it. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I avoid whatever cocky expression my coworker is dealing me. “I’ve heard enough people in my life gush about Mr. Perfect as of late—I don’t need to hear it from you, too.”

Gareth hums, though he doesn’t say anything else on the subject. Maybe he’s already become bored with it because he goes on to rant about how Rhys (his roommate) has taken to running over his toes with his wheelchair whenever they have an argument. I nod along, giving my thoughts on the matter. I almost don’t notice when Baz leaves.

Almost.

*******

How do you even go about returning someone’s jumper when they won’t acknowledge your own existence? Toss it to them in the middle of the street before making a run for it? Try and slide it under their front door and hope it doesn’t get dirty? (Dirtier, I should say but I won’t.)

Any options that pop up in my mind are all more horrendous than the last so I simply decide against giving the thing back. Jokes on Baz. I can just keep his luxe jumper and he can eat my nards if he wants it. I’ve been meaning to get a new one anyhow. Perhaps not one as soft as his, more likely from one of those secondhand shops I pass on the way home from uni.

If Penny notices the jumper and how it obviously isn’t mine since it doesn’t have holes or tears in odd places, she doesn’t mention it. I can’t decide whether I’m thankful for that or not. On one hand, I don’t have to deal with her giving me an odd talk like the ones Agatha and Gareth gave me. However, she’s taken to staring at me whenever I wear it (which, admittedly, has been a lot seeing as it’s been getting colder lately) and it ignites something within me that would probably go away if we just talked it out. She doesn’t say anything, though, just raises an eyebrow and nods to herself.

If it weren’t for the fact that she’d misinterpret my intentions for keeping the jumper, I _would_ talk to Penelope about it. But, considering how much I don’t like to think about anything more complicated than how much steamed milk goes into a cappuccino, I think that would go as well as the time I tried to drop out of school.

Seeing as it is the nicest thing in my wardrobe (yes, I’ve decided it’s mine now), I usually put it on over my shirts so I can keep warm. It’s seen pretty much every place I frequent so it shouldn’t surprise me that the cedar and bergamot smell it originally had is almost completely gone. Now it just smells like coffee and store-bought marinara sauce and smoke.

It’s quite disappointing. Not because of anything weird like Baz smells nice. Nah, he smells like an aristocrat whose only hopes of getting laid rests on an extremely sharp cologne. So, no, he doesn’t smell good but his _clothes_ do. I much prefer it over the detergent me and Penny use. If I didn’t hate his guts ~~(and if I weren’t so fucking terrified of confrontation or the implication of it)~~ I’d ask what he uses but it’s probably too expensive or something like that. Posh brat.

He’s staring at me from across the dining hall. It’s super distracting and I really just want to listen to Penny rant about her bothersome maths professor but Baz is the kind of person who demands attention just by being in a room. It’s irritating. At one point during our lunch break, he gets up and slides out the door in such an unobtrusive way that it’s almost as if he’s waving a banner that says: FOLLOW ME OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW!!! Except he wouldn’t use exclamation points because he’s dry as an old bone.

I wait until Penelope bids me farewell, retreating to the campus library like she always does, before heading out after Baz. Once I’m outside, I try to make it seem like I wasn’t rushing to follow him to a more private setting because I definitely wasn’t. I’m _not_.

I find him sitting on one of the numerous benches in the courtyard, smoking a cigarette. He really has no shame if he’s doing it during school hours. Honestly, the nerve of this guy. After several minutes pass, I notice he’s only smoking since no one’s in the courtyard with us. I approach him with extreme caution then I sit next to him, leaving a considerable amount of space between us.

He doesn’t say anything at first. I don’t bother to take the first swing at the hornet’s nest. We both sit in silence, Baz tapping the ashes from his cig into an empty box. At least he has the decency to not let that shit onto the green.

“I would offer you a smoke but I’m afraid this is my last one,” he gestures with the cigarette in his hand.

It’s when he’s put it between his lips that my mind decides now is the time to try something that might very well end in disaster. I take the cig from where it’s causing Baz’s mouth to dip just a touch and take a drag. It burns and I really shouldn’t have done that but it’s worth seeing Baz’s face go slack. The moment passes quickly, though, and he’s back to his typical stoicism.

Smoke spills like a steady stream as he snatches back his cigarette. “I thought you didn’t smoke.” It almost comes out as a question but Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch doesn’t express mundane curiosity in anything other than his studies.

Still, I manage a cocky grin while rising from the bench. “What a great day to start,” I say, voice low enough to cause my own mind to short-circuit because I should really stop and rethink before I do something stupid that I’ll get addicted to. Then again, if I had half a mind to begin with, maybe I’d admit that I’ve already fallen down that rabbit hole.


	6. The Insidious Humdrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating more frequently but these chapters just come to me :/

Even though I showered after I got home from uni _and_ I had the flat to myself for a couple hours, Penelope still smells cigarettes on me when she gets home.

“Nasty,” she says as soon as I go to hug her.

I pull back, mouth gone slack in surprise. “What?”

She rolls her eyes and tugs at my jumper. “You smell gross.” Her nose wrinkles before she heads into the kitchen. “If you’re going to keep such a horrendous habit, then you should at least have the decency to put your clothes to wash more often.” Her gaze falls to my sweatshirt, Baz’s jumper, which I haven’t washed yet for fear of ruining it.

My blood’s all gone to my face which makes me look way guiltier than I am. If Baz wanted his jumper back he would have mentioned it by now so, technically (it’s all technicalities with Basil), the stupid thing is mine. In an effort to ignore whatever intervention Penny’s clearly leading up to, I busy myself with grabbing food from the fridge so we can start cooking dinner. Anything’s better than dealing with Penelope on a mission (especially when the mission involves me).

“How does alfredo sound?”

“Simon.”

“Because I’ve really been craving pasta lately.”

“Really? Makes sense. Italians use a lot of basil in their food and you’ve clearly had a craving for it all this week.”

I choke on my own saliva. It’s kind of gross. “ _Penelope_ ,” it almost comes out as a hiss but my spit causes my letters to slur together. (Scratch that; it’s definitely gross.)

Pen doesn’t bat an eyelash, she just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest. It’s ridiculous how intimidating a short woman in a pleated skirt can be, but Penelope has always had this spark in her (she’s electric, it’s wicked! … Except for right now. Right now is the opposite of wicked.)

Eventually, she moves to grab the ingredients from the fridge, pausing every once in a while to roll her eyes at me. “All I’m saying is that you’ve been acting weird since you’ve met Basil. He’s a nice neighbour and a stimulating intellectual partner—”

“ _Please_ don’t use the word stimulating while talking about Baz.” All I want to do is hide under my covers for the rest of eternity. Honestly, that would be better than having a conversation about my feelings with Penelope. (The feelings that do not exist in this situation, not one bit.) The one time I had a crush on Agatha and Penny thought it’d be a great idea to give me relationship advice was enough emotional embarrassment to last me a decade or two.

She rolls her eyes in this over-exaggerated fashion that makes my cheeks a ruddy mess. “Oh, sorry. Forgot you’re upset Basil isn’t _your_ stimulating partner. Point blank.” I nearly drop the box of noodles in my surprise. The fact that my glare doesn’t seem to faze Penny isn’t helping my nerves. “You can’t change my mind, Si. You’ve got it bad.”

“I do not!”

And if my face had gone back to its normal golden shade in the past several minutes, the progress is lost as Penelope gives me this _look_ , this uncomfortably thorough once-over as her eyes drag down the length of my body. Her gaze falls back on my chest where my cross burns its mark into my skin. Then I realise she’s staring at my jumper. Baz’s jumper.

I open my mouth to defend myself, to say anything that might redeem me in this situation (feels more like a battle, David and Goliath specifically), but my words fail me which shouldn’t be a surprise. Still, it’s annoying that I can’t defend myself against Penny when she gets like this.

In any case, there’s a knock on the front door. I nearly fall on my face as I rush to answer it. I’m so ready to accept whoever it is that I don’t even check the peephole before opening it. That was probably my first mistake because the person on the other side isn’t anyone I was expecting to see at all. At least, not this time of year.

My head has to tilt down considerably to make eye contact with her. What is she doing here? Why is she here? Wait—that’s the same question.

Her face is static save for her signature smirk, the one that never leaves. I’m almost sure that’s just how she copes. “Hello Simon,” she says way too easily. “Still catching flies I see.”

Time has stopped, I think, just for her (I wouldn’t put it past her). She’s missing one of her eye-teeth (I thought she was past that age?) and it seems the kind of thing she wouldn’t let me get away with not noticing. She hasn’t gotten any taller since last I saw her. She still wears her hair the same way, though; pulled back in a low ponytail she does simply to get it out of the way. Just like I used to except this is distinctly different. (It’s always different with her.)

I nod in her direction, stepping aside so she can enter the flat. My mouth feels so dry but I have to say _something_ to her. “Sidney,” I manage after she strolls into the threshold. After all, she _is_ my sister.

*******

Penelope is quick to notice our impromptu guest. She says Sidney’s got this unmistakable air about her that no one with an ounce of common sense can ignore. I know what she means. Sidney feels like this hallow part of my life akin to a vacuum of space where everything becomes stagnant. It’s as if she’s dug a deep pit that can’t be filled and she thrives on it, on this chaotic energy she creates.

I really shouldn’t talk about my step-sister like this but it’s the truth. And it’s not like I don’t love her. She’s just a little… intense.

“This place is a dump,” she finally says after scraping her hungry gaze across the rooms she can see from where she’s standing.

“Sidney—!”

“What?” She moves to stare at me, eyes empty. “I’m not wrong. This place looks chavvy.”

Penny glares at Sidney. Her eyebrow has been twitching since she noticed she was here. “Neither of us is white, Homer.”

It’s an obvious dig at Sid’s ridiculous middle name. She hates it and Penelope knows that. I have half a mind to separate the two of them before they can actually start fighting. “Pen, let’s just order some takeaway. You can wait in your room—I’ll call you when it gets here.” She gives Sidney one more pointed glare then she heads into her room. I drag a hand down my face, sighing to myself.

We have plenty of takeaway papers shoved in a corner of the kitchen so it doesn’t take much thought to pick a pizza place that will deliver to our flat. The girl on the other end sounds overly perky and it reminds me of myself during my shifts (annoyingly enough).

“How nice of you to order food just for me,” Sidney starts. She’s not even paying attention to me; her focus is solely on the college textbooks littered across all the available surfaces. She picks up one for my stats class, flipping through the pages like she’s starving and whatever’s in the damn thing is roast beef. A minute passes, then she’s returning the book to where it was laying, half-opened on the coffee table. “I’ve read that edition already,” she explains when she finally looks at me.

“Why are you here, Sid?” I force myself to ask because it’s honestly bothering me. “We haven’t seen each other in how long? And we didn’t exactly end things on good terms. So why? Why now?” Shoving my hand into the front of my hair accomplishes nothing other than knotting my curls but it helps soothe my nerves. Sidney won’t meet my gaze, her small hands twisted up in fists. “You’ve always tried to make my life a living hell so why come to me now? To dismantle all the progress I’ve made so far since David—” The tears hitting my cheeks shocks me. I’m crying. Oh, fuck. Why am I crying?

“Maybe your mind just can’t handle talking about him, ignoring him is easier anyhow.”

I stop rubbing at my eyes to stare at my sister. Her face is pinched as if she’s just bitten into a lemon. She keeps her gaze on the floor like that’ll make all of this easier. It kind of does. The tears dry up faster if I look at my red-stockinged feet.

“I’m sorry,” I say. It seems to be the right thing to do. After all, Sidney is just a kid. She doesn’t deserve me bashing on her, no matter my emotional baggage.

She shrugs. I think she got that from me. She didn’t do that before. “It’s fine.”

I shake my head at her. “No, it’s not. Sid, you’re my sister. I love you no matter what you do. So getting mad at you because of my own problems isn’t fair to you.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “Truce?”

She eyes it like I’m trying to give her some worms. Only seconds pass before she slaps it with hers. “You wish. I’m here for the free pizza.”

“And?” I drag out the question. There’s always an “and” when it comes to visits from Sidney. She never sees me in person if she can help it. Something about messing with me through technology being more fun.

“And.” She swallows. It’s showy, an entire scene since she has a more pronounced Adam’s apple than most girls. She’s kind of like me in that sense. We’ve always shared an eerie resemblance, not that we say anything about it. Sidney clears her throat, noticing my wavering attention. “I need to tell you something important.”

The doorbell rings. I go to open it but someone holds me back. Sidney’s stopping me. She’s got my hand clasped in both of hers like she has the strength to keep me in place. Mental strength, maybe.

“That’s the takeaway, Sid.”

“It’s important,” she puts emphasis on her words. Her eyes watch the door, probably judging how long the delivery person will wait before leaving.

“Well, what is it?” I ask since she obviously won’t let it go. “Just tell me so I can get the pizza.”

“Um, I… You see, Simon,” she chokes on her own saliva. Man, she really is my sister in behaviour. She’s just like me. She goes to continue only for there to be a knock this time, sharp and insistent.

I give her a sympathetic smile. Whatever she wants to tell me has gotten her all twisted up. I’m glad she can trust me with what’s troubling her. “You can tell me later, okay?” She doesn’t respond, letting her hands drop as I answer the door.

Of course, the universe loves to fuck me over immensely. It sees me getting along with my sister for once and it decides to take me down a peg or two. I recognize the tall figure looming in my doorway, expression stern and critical. Baz is holding a pizza while giving me a once-over like he can’t decide whether or not he should shove it in my face.

“If you’re going to order takeaway, Snow,” he starts, “you should at least have the decency to meet the delivery person in the lobby instead of making them walk all the way up to your flat.”


End file.
